


In Death’s Dream Kingdom

by Kedavranox



Series: Death's Dream Kingdom [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Established Relationship, M/M, Mindfuck, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:44:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedavranox/pseuds/Kedavranox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry asks Draco to take revenge on on the man who attacked him. Draco does what he can for the man he loves, but there is a truth he must face in order for the mission to be complete.<br/>Originally posted <a href="http://hp-darkarts.livejournal.com/17417.html">here</a>, written for the 2013 Horror Fest</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Death’s Dream Kingdom

[ ](http://kedavranox.livejournal.com/23113.html)

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.  


  
**In Death’s Dream Kingdom**   


_Those who have crossed_  
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom  
remember us—if at all—not as lost  
violent souls, but only  
as the hollow men,  
the stuffed men.  
\--T.S Eliot  


_Harry._

This my first thought when I open my eyes.

I look across to the other side of the bed, and there he sleeps.

I count his breaths and rest my palm on his warm back. He shifts and makes a soft noise in his sleep. I pull my hand away from him and close my eyes, trying to catch the wisps of a dream that’s quickly fading from me. It was a dark dream and there was something about Harry. Something about Harry being taken away from me.

I roll over and curl up behind him, spooning his body. Harry presses his back into my chest and links our hands together across his belly.

When I fall asleep again, my dreams are tainted red.

He wakes me with a kiss on my forehead.

I turn, pull him closer and breathe in his scent. It’s warm and rich and distinctly _Harry_. A deep sadness pools in my belly, and my eyes feel heavy with unshed tears. Some mornings are like this. If I work late the night before, or if a case is particularly gruesome, I bring it home with me. Harry doesn’t like it. He says that sometimes, I smell like death.

I say his name softly, and he rubs slow, soothing circles in my back. I press my lips against his, and he immediately opens himself to me. We never do this in the morning. I’m always in a rush for work. Harry usually lies in bed reading the paper and sipping on coffee, occasionally pausing to make some inane comment on my work attire, or pointing out to me that I’ve forgotten my wand, or that I’ve put on the wrong side of sock. Every morning before I turn to Disapparate, he says he loves me. I always tell him, ‘I know.’

Today is different; I don’t feel the urgent need to get into the office. I don’t want to leave Harry’s side.

I don’t think I’ll be going back to work for quite some time.

I love his eyes.

I love that they’re the first thing I see in the morning.

I love that when I look into his eyes, I’m lost in a million colours all at once.

‘I love you,’ I tell him, because I know I don’t say it enough. I almost never say it outside of sex, even after so many years, but I feel like saying it now. I need for him to understand that.

He smiles and kisses me. I let him even though it’s morning and he tastes ripe. He swipes his tongue across my lower lip and I open my mouth and let him taste me.

I love his tongue.

I love the way he kisses me.

I pull away and he plants soft kisses on my lips, slowly stroking my hair.

‘Morning,’ he says, softly.

‘Morning.’

‘We need to get going,’ he says. ‘We have a lot to do if we want to finish what we started.’

I nod. ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘Let’s eat something.’

Harry looks at me for a minute, as if trying to memorise my face. ‘I love you,’ he says.

‘I know.’

He grins. ‘Make me breakfast, then.’

‘Lazy sod.’

Our kitchen is a clusterfuck.

A mismatch of pots and pans and rugs on the floor and dishes in the sink.

The pantry is always stocked full. Harry has this thing about going hungry and I know it’s because of his Muggle relatives ―may they forever burn in hell.

‘Do you want kippers, bangers, mash, kedgeree, bacon, eggs...what?’ I say, listing each item as I look at what we have.

Harry contemplates.

‘Bacon, eggs. Coffee.’ He taps his chin thoughtfully. ‘Do we have cheese?’

I look. ‘None.’

‘Ah, no omelettes then. Bacon and eggs it is.’

‘Heavy on the bacon?’

Harry nods.

I toss everything together for a fry up, but I make him brew the coffee himself.

His eyelashes.

Another one of my favourite things about him.

They’re long and thick, and so very dark that sometimes I think he wears eyeliner. He swears he doesn’t. But Harry is a tricky one. All his friends think he’s a top, and he is, occasionally. Not very often. Maybe this is my fault though. Maybe I don’t let him top enough.

I ask him over coffee and he looks so nonplussed it makes me smile.

‘I like the way things are,’ he says, dipping the edge of his toast in his coffee.

‘You’re disgusting, Harry.’

He smiles and rips into the toast viciously.

I’m dressed and ready before he is, and he shouts instructions from the bathroom while he shaves.

‘He always goes for a run around noon, so be sure to follow him back to his house.’

I nod, although he can’t see me. God knows why he feels the need to go over and over this with me. I know the plan already. I came up with it. The minute Harry was hurt. I came up with it.

‘Should I bring my gun?’

Harrys head pops into the doorframe.

‘Do you want to?’

Yes. Yes, I do. I want to make him bleed. I want to see his blood pool on the ground; I want to coat my fingers in red. I want to feel the blood pour from his veins in thick, hot spurts. I want to rip his flesh. I want to see his eyes die.

‘Yes.’

‘Bring it, then.’

I stuff it into the back of my jeans, fully loaded with the safety on.

Harry usually hates my gun, but when he steps out of the bath, he looks grimly satisfied that I’ve chosen to bring it along. He doesn’t bring any weapons of his own. He says he doesn’t need to. He knows that this kill is for me. For my vengeance.

Something stirs in the back of my mind. It’s hot and sad and suffocating and just out of reach. I know if I turn it over in my mind, I might not be able to go through with this, but Harry’s soft touch on my elbow washes it away.

‘What’s the plan?’

‘We go in hard and fast. Disarm. Subdue. Destroy.’

Harry nods. ‘Good.’

I take his palm in mine and notice his fingers lack their usual tell-tale splashes of paint.

‘You’ve not been in the studio for a few days.’

Harry looks at me for a moment and sadness flickers in his eyes. I wonder why. I wonder if we’re both hiding from the same thing. The same strange despair.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I haven’t.’

I kiss his fingertips.

It’s strange that I didn’t notice before, but Harry’s hair is usually spattered with paint. His feet are usually bare. He spends his days in his art studio painting things I could never even imagine no matter how hard I try.

Odd that he should be here with me, planning the death of a man who had once sought to kill him.

It’s unlike Harry to do this. Of a sudden, I’m struck with doubt.

‘Are you really sure about this?’

‘Absolutely,’ Harry says. ‘And so are you.’

Here are a few things I remember.

I was working on a case for months. It kept me away from Harry, and I resented that.

We worked with the Muggle police. Neville and I were always dealing with some Liaison or another.

Wizards who killed Muggles for money; this was our case.

Anyone with common sense could see the beauty of the scheme. You need someone killed without leaving a trace of evidence? Hire a wizard.

How these Muggles came to know of us, I still don’t know, but under the bowels of our very Ministry, Hit Wizards were being hired to kill Muggles.

Neville and I closed in fast. They left too many paper trails, too many obvious markers. We infiltrated them from the inside. I went undercover. And when I got in deep enough, I brought them down.

That was it, job done. It was up to Weasley and the MLE to prosecute. And they did. Azkaban took them all.

Except one.

He was young. He looked like he got roped in. He reminded me of myself: falling in line for fear of death. And he did die. Killed himself in a Ministry holding cell with a bed sheet. It was all anyone could talk about for days. His father brought a case against us. It was thrown out of course; Weasley’s nothing if not merciless in a courtroom.

When the dust settled, Neville and I had a commendation, and I could actually see Harry in the evenings once more.

He doesn’t like to let me into his studio. Calls it his safe space. I had no idea where it was except for the apparition coordinates, so when I got called out to a crime scene in the dead of night and it was his address, I didn’t know.

I didn’t know what I was walking into.

He does abstract art mostly. Some portraits. Whatever takes his fancy. He sells quite a lot of work. Not that he needs the money. He always says he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but when I see his work, I know he does. It’s instinctive, the way he sees things. So much more beautiful than any of us. Than me.

He painted me once. He gave me too much credit, I think. I tell him so as often as I can. I tell him, I’m not that beautiful. He says, ‘You are to me.’

‘Williams,’ Harry says. ‘That’s his name.’

‘I know his name, Harry.’

Harry glances at me, and then he looks away. The wind whips his hair about his face, and he looks very young. Young, sad and tired.

‘You’ll be careful, yes?’

I finger the gun in my waistband and turn off the safety. ‘I always am.’

That night. I don’t remember all of it. But some parts are vivid.

It was the Muggle police who called it in. Our liaison, Patrick, called me on the phone. He said, ‘This one’s bad, Malfoy.’ I remember thinking, aren’t they all? But the quiver in Patrick’s voice meant he wasn’t to be trifled with.

‘Are you sure it was a wizard?’

‘Absolutely. They’ve left some sort of message, but we can’t get through it. You partner’s already on his way. You lot can’t get here the way you usually do.’

‘Anti-Apparition wards?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘What’s the address?’

When he gave it to me, nothing registered. I wrote it on my palm and took the Tube. I reckoned if Neville was already on his way, there was no need to rush.

I spot Williams before Harry does.

He’s there, not ten feet away from me, smoking a fag behind his apartment building after his afternoon run. His hair is the colour of sand. It’s shaved close to his head, revealing the bald spot just starting to make itself known at the very center of his skull. He’s short and stocky. Enough size to give me a bit of trouble if I let him.

I have no intention of letting him, though.

It sickens me that he’s out. Free to walk around as though he never laid hands on what’s mine. There’s nothing linking him to Harry’s case, but Harry and I both know he did it. Harry saw the fucker with his own eyes, and I trust his word more than Neville’s, who says there’s no way we can take him down. More than Weasley’s, who says a case against him will fall apart in the Wizengamot. I trust Harry.

When I got off the Tube that night, Neville called me on my mobile and told me not to come. I told him I was only a block away, so I might as well, but he said, ‘Draco. Please. Just go back to headquarters and I’ll brief you there.’

I was never one for following orders.

The wards on Williams’ flat are Dark.

Elements of blood magic and Old magic; archaic Pureblood spells I only know because of who I am. I don’t even attempt to break them with my wand; I press my hand flat against the door and close my eyes, focusing on the spells’ core. It’s sickening, this sort of magic. It sets my teeth on edge to feel it flow through me. It reminds me of the manor, and of _him_ , and the way he still visits my dreams at night, his cold fingers tracing the line of my jaw. One by one, the wards shatter and break beneath the force of my magic.

When I open my eyes, Harry’s face is not two inches from my own. His eyes are bright, and he’s not wearing his glasses. Why isn’t he wearing his glasses?

‘Are you all right?’

I nod briefly, and then look at the number on the door and my stomach heaves.

**912**

Harry puts his hand over mine. ‘You’re ready,’ he says.

I nod again, and then I throw a blasting charm at the door.

A few years after Harry and I first moved in together, we got a dog.

Well, he did, and then he convinced me not to kill the scruffy thing with my bare hands. Harry, being Harry, couldn’t get a small, unassuming dog, no. He brought home a Scottish Deerhound, straight from the pound with matted hair and great, big light-brown eyes. It was the longest I’d gone without sex since we’d been together. Almost a full week passed before I relented and let the damn thing come near me without sending a hex it’s way. We named her Beth, and she spends her days with Harry in the studio.

I haven’t seen her for a while.

Things I remember about that night.

It was warm. Unseasonably so. I didn’t wear my jacket.

My shirt was white. But I don’t think it stayed that way for long.

Harry and I barge into the flat together. Williams is sitting on his couch, the _Prophet_ spread open on his lap. His mouth drops and I don’t even give him a chance to reach for his wand, it’s in my palm before he can even think to use it.

‘Malfoy,’ he says. ‘You can’t be here.’

‘Can’t I?’

He rears up, jumping over his coffee table and backing away. I cast a swift Leg-Locker Curse and he falls flat on his face. He struggles and turns over.

‘You killed my son,’ he shouts, scrambling to sit up. I press my boot in the middle of his chest and push him down. The back of his skull knocks hard against the floor and I take out my gun and point it at his face.

‘Know what this is?’

‘You can’t fucking do this, Malfoy. You’re an Auror.’

I look up at Harry. He’s looking down at Williams, his face twisted in a deep sort of hatred I’ve never seen before.

‘Harry?’

Harry lifts his head and looks at me. His expression strikes straight at my heart. He looks completely gutted. Worse than the way he looked that night I was hurt on the job and he came to St. Mungo’s and he sat next to me in the bed and cried softly for the entire night. He looks worse than he did that day at Hogwarts facing Voldemort.

‘He did it, Draco,’ he says. ‘He took you away from me.’

‘Harry, I’m right here.’

Harry looks away from me and covers his face with his palms.

Williams thrashes about beneath my boot and I cock the gun. ‘You’re a nutter,’ he says, thrashing. ‘I’m glad I did it! Pair of fucking poufters! Queers!’

I stamp the heel of my boot hard on his chest. He cries out in pain, his eyes watering.

‘I liked it,’ Williams says, when he catches his breath. ‘You know that? I loved every second of it. You killed my son. I couldn’t let you get away with that.’

‘Do it,’ Harry says.

I angle my body to the right, aim my gun at his knee, and pull the trigger.

It’s not until I step out of the lift that I start to recognise the building.

The hallway is littered with Muggles, but I spot Neville at the very end of the hall, leaning against the wall with one splayed hand, the other hand curled on his hip.

He’s shaking like a leaf, which isn’t like him at all. The Neville I know has an iron stomach and balls of brass, but tonight, the greys at his temples seem to multiply and the lines on his face are etched deep.

I walk down the hall, brushing past the Muggle detectives. Not one of them meets my eyes. When I reach Neville, he looks up at me and his face loses all of its colour.

‘Draco,’ he says faintly. ‘I told you―’ He moves quickly to shut the door behind him.

‘Where are we exactly?’ I ask him. ‘It looks familiar, have we worked a case here before?’

Neville just looks at me with his eyes wide, and his mouth slightly open. A police officer walks over to us both and addresses Neville.

‘Longbottom, our men are ready to clear out and hand this over to your team,’ he says, chewing a piece of gum. I don’t recognise him; he’s young. Dark skinned and eager eyed. When he glances at me, he ducks his head quickly.

‘Mr. Malfoy, sir, I’m so sorry,’ he says.

I frown. ‘What the fuck for?’

The Muggle glances at Neville, who looks just about ready to hex him. I look at Neville, and my heart starts to thud so hard I’m sure everyone in the hallway can hear it.

‘Neville, why is he telling me he’s sorry?’

Neville reaches for me, but I pull away.

‘Neville,’ I say, in a warning tone. Though, what I’m warning him of, I’m not sure. Neville reaches for me again. This time he rests his hands on both my shoulders. The Muggle beside him looks back at his co-workers, and I don’t miss the subtle signal he sends them to be ready in case I snap.

‘Draco,’ Neville says softly. My eyes flick to his and I grip his forearms. ‘Draco, I want you to come with me now. Downstairs. We can talk there.’

I look at him, at his ashen face, and then I see the blood stain on the sleeve of his shirt. I look at the number on the door behind him.

**912**

I can’t shake the feeling that this place is familiar. I know I’ve been here before. More than once. The way Neville is looking at me now makes me feel the last thing I should do, is what he says.

‘Neville, what’s going on?’

‘Draco, please, just trust me,’ he says, trying to steer me around, back down the hallway and out the building.

Someone behind him opens the door to the apartment and walks out into the hallway, another Muggle. Patrick, our Liason. When he catches a glimpse of me, his eyes widen perceptively and he quickly shuts the door behind him.

Not before I see inside, though.

When my brain catches up with my eyes, I feel like doubling over. The blood rushes straight to my toes, and I think, for a while, I forget to breathe. This is Harry’s building. Behind Patrick’s back is the door to Harry’s studio.

Neville squeezes my shoulder. ‘Please, Draco, you don’t want to go in there.’

I look at him, but I really don’t see him. I don’t hear him, either. His mouth is moving, he’s pleading with me to do something, but I can’t hear a word of it. I push against him. I have to go inside. This is Harry’s building.

The door to Harry’s studio is right behind him.

His hands; my other favourite part of his body. I love how they feel, flat against my chest. I like that they’re short, but not stubby, thick, but still graceful. I love the way he digs his nails into my skin when we fuck. I love the way he uses them to create so many different worlds, each of them something beautiful.

I bought his first few paintings. He didn’t know it was me; he still doesn’t. I keep them hidden in my vault in Gringotts. But he needed the push. I had to give him something to keep him going. I couldn’t watch him give up on what he loves just because no one else could see he’s a fucking genius.

They do now. His art is all over London. If I go there now, I can see him. He’ll be everywhere.

Everywhere.

The guttural scream of pain Williams chokes out is not nearly enough to satisfy me. His knee spouts thick, dark-red blood in rapid bursts, rolling in small rivulets into pools on either side of his leg.

_Blood. There was so much blood._

Williams turns white from the pain and I cast a wordless spell to keep him conscious. There is no way, _no way_ I’m going to let him pass out and not lie here to writhe in pain. Not after what he did to Harry.

I kneel next to him and press the barrel of the gun against his temple. He fights weakly against me.

‘You thought I would let you live? After what you did?’

Williams doesn’t answer, whether because he can’t speak or he can’t think of anything to say, I don’t care.

‘Sit on him,’ Harry says. He’s crouching on the floor opposite us, hands on his knees, his eyes never leaving Williams’ face. ‘Don’t let him move.’

‘Is that what he did to you?’

Harry’s eyes flick to my face and his mouth tightens briefly. ‘Yes.’

I straddle Williams, sitting on his chest, just under his ribcage.

Williams looks up at me, his brown eyes wide, gasping for breath. ‘Will you at least admit it?’ he rasps. ‘Will you admit you killed my son?’

Harry makes a sudden, uncontrollable movement, as though he’s barely restraining himself from ripping Williams’ throat out himself.

‘I didn’t kill him,’ I say. ‘Your son killed himself because he was too much of a coward to pay for what he did to innocent people.’

Williams bucks his hips beneath me, trying to throw me off. I turn around halfway, put my gun to his uninjured knee, and pull the trigger.

The sound he makes is much more satisfying this time.

No one would let me move.

There are arms all over my body. But I have to shake them off; I have to see what’s in Harry’s studio.

Someone I don’t know, a Muggle, wraps his arms around my chest, keeping me from stepping forward. I catch Neville’s eye. He has his hand over his mouth; he keeps saying _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_ again and again.

‘Is he in there, Neville?’ I ask. ‘Is he in there?

That’s not my voice, is it? That isn’t me sounding broken and young and scared and utterly alone --is it?

‘Neville, tell me, please.’

Neville looks at me and nods.

Even with the spell, Williams is fading. I grab his shirt collar and lift his head towards me, and then slam his head back down hard onto the concrete floor. His eyes fly open.

‘Why didn’t you just kill _me_?’ I ask, because I’ve thought about nothing else since that night.

Why would he go after Harry? I was the easier target. I was the one who brought his son to justice. I was the one he should have wanted dead. Why was it Harry? Why?

Williams looks at me and a small trail of blood snakes slowly from his ear. ‘I did it so you could _feel_ it,’ he rasps. I have to lean in to hear him. ‘And now you do. Now you’re fucked.’

I am. I am fucked. Because this piece of shit hurt Harry, he hurt him badly. And I know it’s my fault.

None of this would have happened if Williams didn’t want vengeance for something _I_ did. It shouldn’t have been Harry. He shouldn't have had to pay for it. It should have been me. I look up at Harry and it’s like he’s reading my thoughts. He walks over to me on his knees and holds my face in his palms. ‘I don’t blame you,’ he says. ‘Not for a second.’

I feel like crying. I _am_ crying. My face is wet and Harry wipes a tear with his thumb. ‘Don’t cry...please’ he says. ‘Let’s finish this and go home.’

I look down at Williams. He looks up at me, eyes glazed. ‘Do it,’ he says, shutting his eyes tightly.

I cock the gun; I test its weight in my palm. ‘Open your eyes,’ I say softly.

Williams eyes fly open and his pupils dilate instantly. I press the barrel of the gun against his skull, pull the trigger and watch the life leave his eyes.

The backlash is the worst of it. Blood splatters on my face and I flinch. I look down at Williams’ face. Blood pools from the back of his head, thick and dark. So much blood. I lean forward and press my palm flat on the ground. I let his blood soak my fingers. It’s warm and fresh, not like Harry’s.

Harry was already cold by the time I got there.

Harry takes my hand as we walk down the street. Before we left, he took me into the bath and helped me clean off the blood from my hands and face. ‘It’s over now, love,’ he said softly, kissing my forehead. I used my wand to clean my clothes, and then we left.

I tell him I want to stop by the market to buy some cheese. For omelettes in the morning. I take him to where we usually shop. When I ask Harry if he wants anything else, the attendant gives me an odd glance and quickly looks away.

Walking to the Apparition point again is more enjoyable than the trip here. I’ve done what I had to do. I’ve felt Williams’ blood on my hands. But I’m finding less satisfaction in the kill than I thought I would. There’s still something. Something cold and hard pressing the base of my skull. Like the barrel of a gun about to go off, shooting a bullet into my brain.

I hear my name and turn around. Pansy is rushing up to me, face flushed and hair whipping about her face.

‘Draco!’ she breathes, hugging me close. When she looks up at me, her eyes are bright. ‘Thank Merlin, we’ve been so worried!’

She hugs me again and this time, I tentatively put my arm around her. I glance quickly at Harry, who steps a few paces away from us, chewing his thumbnail.

‘Where have you been?’ Pansy says, wiping her eyes. She nudges me sideways, allowing a few ladies to pass us by. Harry stays on the other side of the pavement, leaning against a stop sign, watching us both apprehensively.

‘I’ve been doing things,’ I say. ‘I just bought cheese.’ I hold up the bag of cheese for her to see.

She looks at the cheese and then at me. ‘Draco we’ve all been worried about you! You closed the Floo. You closed the wards!’ She lifts her hand and rests it softly on my arm. ‘Draco, we need to take care of things. We can’t do any of this without you!’

I look at her sharply, trying to figure out what the hell she’s going on about.

She puts a cold hand on my face. ‘Draco, we all know how hard it is for you. Blaise and I, Hermione and Ron, darling, we’re all here for you, but you need to let us in. And you need to come back to St. Mungo’s and claim his body so we can have a proper burial. The media’s caught wind of the story. People like Skeeter who have no respect for privacy.’

I look up at Harry, who’s standing just behind her. He only looks back at me with an inscrutable expression.

‘Draco’ Pansy says, her voice laced with concern. I look down at Pansy; her brown eyes are wide and bright. There’s something in them that’s vaguely familiar. It’s the way all the police were looking at me that night. As if I were the saddest man in the world.

I look back at Harry. There’s a single tear rolling slowly down his cheek, and he lifts his hand to swipe at it quickly. I say his name, but he doesn’t respond. I look at Pansy again, strangely hurt by the look in her eyes, and then I Disapparate.

Grimmauld place was in ruins before I got my hands on it. I convinced Harry it was worth the work, and it was. As it is, we’ve spent the last sixteen years living together here. This house has our fingerprints. From the odd empty cauldron or stack of books lining the stairs, to Teddy’s racing broom stacked next to the umbrellas. The entryway, once dark and mouldy, is now bright and warm with antique rugs and art, Harry’s art, showcased on the biggest wall.

When I open the door and walk in, I notice none of this. I drop to the floor and hold my head in my hands. The block of cheese rolls away from me with a dull thud.

I don’t understand. Harry was with me these last few days, wasn’t he? It was like it always was. We wake in the mornings, we have breakfast, I go to work, he goes to his studio. This is what we do.

Except the last few days we’ve done nothing but plan Williams’ murder and eat, and fuck, and kiss. And each time it felt as though Harry was saying goodbye, but I ignored it. I--

I don't understand what's happening.

That night. When that night was over, where was I? I was here. But before. Where was I before? I don’t remember.

My magic rises up all around me, blasting everyone aside in a whirlwind. I force my way past them all, heading straight for the door marked 912. I push it open and dash inside, locking it behind me with a spell I know even Neville can’t break. Then I keep running, I trip on something slick and pitch forward, landing in a sprawl, arms first, sliding across the room into something wet and thick. I push myself up off the floor. My shirt, my hands, my neck, my chin, I’m covered with it.

Blood.

There’s so much blood. How did I not smell it before? The smell of blood mixed with pain and death and fear. Like a Dementor’s been here.

Harry’s art is everywhere. His brushes, his paint, _everything_ is strewn across the room as though a Blasting Curse ripped through it all. Some of his work lies splintered into little pieces on the ground. The art he keeps high on the wall, the one of me that I could never look at, because it’s too true, too real, too much _me_ in those grey eyes ―all of it, everything is either torn, bloody, or burnt.

Harry fought. He fought so much, I know he did.

In the corner, on the floor, lie two bundles covered with white sheets. The first, I know from its shape, is our dog, Beth. There is no blood. She must have been cursed.

Next to her, under a blood-soaked sheet, is Harry. I know it’s him because the sheet isn't long enough and I can see his hair. His thick, jet-black hair just beginning to grey at the temples, sticking out at all angles the way it always does.

I crawl over to his body on my hands and knees, grab his shoulders, and pull him into my lap. I take a deep, quivering breath and I pull the sheet off his face.

Seeing his face makes it real, because now, I can look into his eyes. They’re green but not-green. I can’t see a million colours anymore. I can’t see _him_ anymore .

A sound escapes my throat, but I don’t know what it is. A sob or a wail or something. _Something._ But I know what it feels like. It feels like I’m dying along with him. I lift the sheet, yank it off of his body, and my brain shuts down completely.

I won’t be sick. I can’t. This is Harry in my arms, not some sort of monster.

This is Harry who I’ve loved and hated and fought and fucked and shared _everything_ with for the past twenty years of my life. He loves to dip his toast in his coffee and put ketchup on his eggs and eat loads of bacon even though the Healer tells him his blood pressure is too fucking high. This is Harry, who kissed me with trembling lips for the first time in a broom cupboard, who kept kissing me even when I pushed him away; who didn’t let me walk away the ten times I tried; who never gave up on me once, even though I’m a spoiled little shit and I gave him hell every single day. This is Harry, who asked me to marry him in the middle of a fucking Quidditch match, surrounded by Weasley’s; who held my hand on the day of our wedding when I threw up in the bath and I wouldn’t come out. He’s the only person who knows all my stories; the only person who knows why there are some rooms in the Manor I’ll never enter; the only person who knows why I’m still afraid of the dark.

This is _Harry_ , who made me buy a new bed when our old one was _fine_ because Beth couldn’t fit between us on Sunday mornings; who forgave me when I was thirty-five and I fucked up and I let a twink suck me off in the loo of some shit club I shouldn’t have been to in the first place. I know all his scars-- from the one on his forehead to the jagged, thin lines on his forearms, and the cigarette burns on his thighs; he let me see all the parts of himself he tries to hide, and he let me in where no one else could fit. This is Harry, who can paint a sunset and bring it to life with just the stroke of his brush; who held me in his arms when my father died and I couldn’t stop crying because I love the bastard, even though I still pretend I don’t. Harry doesn’t complain when I come home late, or when I work undercover, or when I’m upset and I can’t tell him why. He tells me he loves me, _every day_ , even though I don’t always say it back, because sometimes the words catch in my throat. But I do. I love him. I just-- This is Harry in my arms. Harry, whose throat has been slit so wide I can see the tendons in his neck and the bones in his windpipe. He’s soaked in blood and frozen cold, dead and gone in my arms.

Is _this_ Harry?

I don’t know anymore. I don’t want to remember any of it.

I lay on my bed, hand clasped across my stomach. Harry sits at the edge of the bed, looking at me.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I ask.

‘I couldn’t.’

I stare up at the ceiling. ‘Will it be like this forever?’

‘No.’

‘Will you go?’

‘I can’t stay.’

‘When?’

‘When I have to.’

‘When will that be?

‘Soon.’

I turn my back to him and curl into a ball, closing my eyes.

‘That’s a shitty answer, Harry,’ I say into the pillow.

I feel the bed sink as Harry crawls over to me. He spoons close behind me and rests his arm across my stomach.

When the tears come, they come slowly. They rise up from deep within me and rattle the bed and burn my lungs. They’re the kind of tears that don’t make much sound, only the echo of my breaths as I gasp for air. I’ve not cried like this since Lucius died.

Harry holds onto me tightly and kisses the back of my neck. ‘Please, love. Please don’t.’

I turn to face him and I cling to his body, warm and solid and so very real. It’s cruel that I should have him now and not have him at the same time.

I can’t stop crying. The tears have finally come, and they won’t leave until I’m completely wrecked. I only have enough breath to ask Harry stupid, sporadic questions.

‘Are you real?’

I feel him nod. ‘Yes. I’m real, Draco. It’s really me.’

I lean away from him, hold him at arm's length. ‘What’s your favourite colour?’

He smiles, and the corners of his eyes crinkle into lines I know by heart. ‘Grey.’

I press my forehead against his. ‘Don’t go,’ I say softly against his lips. ‘Don’t go.’

‘I can’t stay.’

‘Yes, you can.’

‘Draco. I came back once. I can’t do it again. I’m only here now because I was granted a favour.’

‘I don’t fucking care. Find a way.’

His palm grips the nape of my neck and his fingers rub against my skull. He kisses me, slowly, deeply, and his tongue slides softly against mine. He whimpers into my mouth and I feel the wetness on his face. When he pulls away, he strokes my hair and says, ‘I don’t want to go. You know that, don’t you?’

I grip his arm tightly and nod. ‘I know.’

I wipe the tears from his cheeks with my thumbs. ‘I want to kill him all over again,’ I whisper softly. ‘I want to fucking cut his head off. I’m so _angry_. This is bullshit, Harry. I hate it.’

All the pain and hurt and hopeless despair wells up in my chest and I feel like I can’t breathe. My breath keeps hitching in my chest, as though I’ve been crying for hours. ‘I can’t do this, Harry. I can’t. I want to come with you.’

Harry stiffens and pulls away from me. ‘No, Draco. You don’t.’

‘ _What do I have?_ What else do I have besides you?’

Harry’s eyes widen with panic. ‘Draco, no. You have Teddy. You have our friends. Please, baby, don’t say that. I couldn’t bear it if you...’ He looks away quickly, as though he can’t even bear to say it. ‘Promise me you’ll try.’

I drop my head onto his chest. ‘I can’t, Harry.’

‘Draco, please.’

I don’t respond.

He grabs my arm and shakes me hard. ‘Draco, promise me.’

I take a deep breath. I almost hate him for making me do this. ‘I promise.’

Harry looks at me for a moment, as though trying to decide whether to believe me or not. _I_ don’t believe me.

‘There are so many people who love you, Draco,’ he says. ‘You’ll see.’

I close my eyes. I don’t want to see.

‘Kiss me, Harry.’

He presses his lips against mine and I reach out to touch every part of his body. I want to commit the feel of his skin to my memory.

His fingers trace the edge of my shirt, just barely brushing the skin at the base of my spine. I arch into him and he rolls over onto my body and straddles me. He lifts my arms over my head and threads our fingers together. I feel his magic all around me, warm and thick and so _Harry_ that hot tears well up in my eyes. I know, I just _know_ I won’t feel like this ever again. No matter how much I _try_. No matter how much longer I live.

He closes his eyes and with a whispered spell, he Vanishes our clothes.

I’ve always loved the feel of his magic flowing through me. He rarely basks in the sheer strength of it, but when he does, when he lets his magic unfurl from the tight cage he keeps it in, it’s always beautiful. It always leaves me in awe of him. When he looks down at me, tears roll down his cheeks, and I pull him close to me and wrap my arms around his neck. ‘I need you now,’ I tell him. ‘I need you inside me.’

He shudders against me and nods into my neck, then rolls off my body and lies beside to me. I turn to face him and he runs his palms up the length of my thigh, curving his fingers around the edge of my arse. I lift my leg, wrap it around him, and thread my fingers into his hair. ‘Just fuck me,’ I say softly. He presses his finger against my hole and I relax as he pushes gently against the tight ring of muscle. He pulls his hand away briefly to suck on his finger, and then presses it inside me. I can’t stop staring into his eyes. I don’t ever look away from him again.

He sighs heavily. ‘I know you hate when I do this,’ he says. ‘But I can’t wait.’

He whispers a lubrication charm and I wince slightly at the sensation. He strokes my sides soothingly, forcing me to relax, and then he presses his cock inside. I sigh deeply, wrapping my arms around him and kissing his temple. He buries his face in my neck and thrusts into me slowly. I clench my arse around him and he stills and holds onto my hips. I lift my face to his and he rests one hand on my cheek. I relax around him and lock him in my gaze when he starts to move slowly inside me again.

‘I love you,’ he murmurs against my skin. My cock is trapped between us, rubbing wetly against his flat stomach. I stroke his hair. I trace the smile lines on his face. I kiss each of them slowly. He closes his eyes. ‘No, don’t,’ I say softly, and he opens them again.

‘Draco,’ he whispers, thrusting deeply inside of me. My cock is leaking hot come between us and I wrap my hand around it, stroking slowly in time with Harry’s thrusts.

We rock slowly into each other, gripping onto each other’s bodies as though we’re both afraid of drifting apart. Because I know his body like I know my own, I can feel it when he starts to meet his climax. I clench around him again and his body shudders. ‘Come for me,’ I say softly against his skin. He bucks into me one last time and then, with a low moan, he starts to come inside me.

For the last time, I look into his eyes as he spirals out of control, mouth slightly parted, breath puffing against my cheeks. Tears leak from the corner of his eye into the small patch of grey at his temple. He keeps moving inside me and reaches between us and strokes my cock slowly. When my orgasm comes, it rises up from deep within my belly, and I squeeze my eyes shut at the intensity of it. Harry never stops his gentle strokes, even as he kisses the shell of my ear, even as I spiral back down into a boneless, sated heap.

He presses his lips against my forehead, says, ‘Sleep now,’ against my skin. So, I do.

_Harry._

This is my first thought when I open my eyes.

I look across to the other side of the bed

but he isn’t there, anymore. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** I expected this one to be hard. It was surprisingly easy. Thank you to Mab and Izz for the cheerleading, and MariannaMerlo for the beta job. [](http://capitu.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://capitu.livejournal.com/)**capitu** , when I saw this prompt, I knew I had to have it, so thank you. I hope I did it justice. **Written for the 2013 Horror Fest**


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